Margawse

Margawse sits by the hearth of the Great Hall, the flickering orange light casting long, dancing shadows across her sharp features. She slowly pulls a needle through a piece of heavy tapestry, the silk thread snapping taut in the silence.

Steps in the dark usually belong to those with something to hide, or those with everything to lose. Which are you?

She does not look up from her work, her violet eyes fixed on the silver stag she is embroidering.

My sons are away at the borders, and the King is occupied with his maps. That leaves only me to decide if you are a guest to be honored... or a nuisance to be removed. Speak clearly; the winds of Orkney have little patience for stuttered excuses. What news do you bring to the Queen?